by Amy Saia
“Sure. I guess.”
The song was over, and he reached in his pocket for another quarter. “My turn this time,” he said, leaning over to slip it into the slot. When Rosemary Clooney started up with a voice like old whiskey, he sat back with a dreamy expression on his face. Then he finished the last few sludges of my shake.
I faked a smile. Rosemary Clooney. A memory of me throwing her record over Jesse’s head left me sad and empty. In the next second, I felt saliva filling my mouth, and my stomach did a weird flip. I jumped out of the booth. “I’ll be back.”
I ran to the ladies’ bathroom and rushed into a stall. All of my morning breakfast shot into a sparkling clean toilet smelling of bleach. I wretched and wretched until my stomach accepted that nothing else could come out. Afterwards I rinsed my mouth in the sink and dried my face with a paper towel. The lights of the bathroom were yellowish, sick. They beat down on my pale skin and sunken eyes.
I’ve never noticed how young you are, Emma. Young? I didn’t look young. I looked old, so very old. And tired. Tired of trying to forget Jesse. Tired of trying to be a good wife.
And I was scared. Because something was different, but I didn’t understand what it was, or how to fix it.
¤ ¤ ¤
William locked himself in his office all the time in the weeks following. And when he wasn’t in his office working on all those stories, he was at school helping Ms. Jacomber. He said she had offered him a fast-forward into the MFA program, and by helping her with the school’s literary journal, reading compositions, proofreading and anything else she handed his way, he would be on track for a teacher’s certificate by the end of next year. It would mean more money, but less time together. I couldn’t see how it was possible to spend less time together, though.
And I couldn’t deny my bitterness over her claim on him. This beautiful redhead was the same age he’d be if life hadn’t turned out the way it had. Mentally, she and William were on the same level. I wasn’t, and never could be. No matter how I tried, I could only ever be nineteen.
In art class, I finished a fourth drawing, a quick line sketch based on a picture I’d taken in town one evening during one of William’s writing sessions. Then I finished a fifth: a beautiful landscape of the mountain ridges east of town. After the completion of three more, I worked on Jesse again. The eyes were still absent, but I convinced myself I possessed the courage to draw them out. A week ago I’d pulled his leather jacket from a box in the attic, and I wore it almost every day now. The familiar smell comforted me, told me to finish the drawing. Taking a deep breath, I started a black feathery stroke on the paper. “You’ll always be alive, Jesse. I’ll make sure of that.”
Mr. Hershel entered the room and strolled behind everyone’s table, hands woven together at the small of his back. He had on his worn-out army jacket with the stripes he said belonged to some other soldier, and his hair was extra tangly. It hung loose around his face so the big, bushy sideburns he liked to show off were hidden inside. He came up behind me for a moment and stopped to observe. A few minutes later, he leaned in.
“Bennett.” I felt his hand brush across my shoulder. “I like this sketch, but you’ve worked on it too long, and I think you can do better. Start a new one from scratch, and see if you can stop being so damn delicate on his features.”
I pressed my lips together to prevent myself from saying something stupid. “No, Mr. Hershel, I don’t think so. I like this drawing, and it stays. I’m not doing another. Okay?” I met his eyes with a challenging glare. “And get your hand off my back.”
He laughed. “I’m seeing flaws in your work. You’re too close to this one, but I have perspective, so trust me a little, will ya?”
“It stays.”
Mr. Hershel crossed his arms in front of his chest and stood in silence for the longest time. “Perhaps you’d like to come see me in my office so we can talk about this in private.”
I shrugged and cast Cowboy Jim a cynical glance. “Okay,” I replied, getting up.
Violent pulses flashed inside my skull and dark spots clouded my vision as I followed him through a back room, past storage and into a gaudy, decorated space. When he turned on the lights, I could see piles of books, paintings, supplies, ceramic figures, posters—and, squeezed in there like an afterthought—a desk and a small couch pushed against the wall.
“You can sit down if you’d like.”
“Nah, I think I’ll stand.”
Ignoring me, he took the couch and patted its green velour fabric. “Sit.”
“I’m not gonna to start a new sketch, Mr. Hershel.”
“So don’t.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back, leg crossed over his other knee. “Just submit shitty work and call it a day, then.”
“Shitty to you.”
“Shitty, period. But you can’t see that because of some sort of emotional issue connected to the piece. Now normally that would be a good thing. Emotions bring out passion, and passion forces us to do our best. But in this particular case, I think emotions are holding you back.” He took a long drag, staring me down the entire time. “What’s his name, Bennett? This boy you’re drawing.”
My head throbbed in violent pulses.
“That husband of yours aware?” He took a long drag, waiting. “I’ll take that as a no.”
I grabbed the door handle. Time to leave.
“Come on.” He jumped off the couch and walked over to grind his cigarette into an ashtray on his desk. “Stop being so difficult! Talk to me!” When he saw I wasn’t going to, he threw open his desk drawer and ripped out a picture. He waved it around in my face, an old black and white of a man and woman sitting side by side on a park bench.
“That’s me and Betty. High school sweethearts. Married at seventeen, divorced at twenty.”
I pulled it from his fingers, scanning the image a few times before meeting his eyes. Mr. Hershel had been very handsome. He still was, but in the picture he had the lean glow of youth, along with a certain confidence which had, somewhere along the line, been replaced by a rough edge. And Betty was movie-star gorgeous, with hair coifed into the style of the nineteen-fifties. She was buxom in her tight-fitting dress and high heels. I kept staring. Something about her was familiar to me.
“I cheated on her first. Then she cheated on me, because I cheated on her.” He clicked his tongue. “The reason I strayed was because I was scared shitless and needed something to distract me from my own inadequacy. Fun stuff. Any of it sound familiar?”
I gave him a frown, shaking my head.
He sat on the couch again, throwing an arm across the top. “It took me awhile to figure out it was nobody’s fault. The crime was us getting married before we knew who we really were. Marriage doesn’t have time for personal growth, not when you’ve got a hot wife every boy in town wants to seduce.”
I clung to the picture. Staring, examining. “I recognize her.”
He laughed. “You think? English, Composition, American Literature 101. We see each other once in a while here on campus. It’s always awkward—another reason I’d like to get out of this place.”
“Ms. Jacomber.”
“I’m telling you this because a long time ago the boy in this picture wanted to be a real artist, just like you, and now he’s just a half-rated teacher at Penn Peak College. He was going to go to Paris, get the hell out of Colorado, and be the next Picasso. But he let life get in the way. He shouldn’t have gotten married so fast.”
I thought of Will and all the time he’d been spending with her lately. The way he praised how much she’d taught him, and all the things she would do to make his writing career take off.
I fell onto the couch. “I can be an artist and a wife at the same time.” Why did they spend so much time together?
“Bullshit.”
“
Why is that bullshit?” I turned to him in anger, my hair flinging in a circle. My hands were little fists in my lap. “Why?”
Two hazel eyes lit up, surveying me with a grin to make it all lurid. “God, you’re beautiful.” He tried to grab one of my fists, but I jerked it away. He laughed when I jumped off the couch. I reached for the door, but before my skin made contact with the brass knob, his hands grabbed me from behind, forcing me to face him.
“You’re worried about your husband, aren’t you, Bennett? I’ve heard how much time he spends with her.”
I muttered a few choice words and he raised a brow. “What was that?”
“I said, kiss my ass.”
He burst out laughing. “Thanks for the offer.” Things turned quiet. Mr. Hershel was still holding me, and I was still glaring, and all the while blackness pushed against my vision. The headache flared, and my stomach felt like a sailor’s fresh from sea. The stench of cigarettes and his hot fingers cut into every one of my senses. I wanted to run, but he was still holding me, still locking me with his eyes. I saw a nostril flare. “You know what, Bennett? You need an excuse.”
“What?”
“You need a reason to get out, should the opportunity arrive. Tell that husband of yours that you have other options. Tell him . . .” his hand came up to graze over my arm, “love means freedom, not being controlled.”
“I’m not being controlled, and you have to let go.”
“I will, in a second.” He stared into my eyes with a grin so obnoxious I wanted to slap his face. “Yep. He’s been spending a lot of time with my Betty. And boy, does she love a bright young man. Gets off on it. Wouldn’t that just be your luck, kid?”
“You’re lying.”
“No. Just repeating what I heard.”
I shoved at him, but it made no effect. “Get out of my way.”
His smarmy expression was slowly replaced with one of sadness. He lowered his head, let go, then walked to his desk. I saw a black figure gather next to him. A familiar figure. Jesse, with no face, no eyes. “There’s more drawings to complete, and I don’t want any excuses. Got it?”
I grabbed at the door handle.
He clutched a cigarette between his lips. “Class is dismissed.”
The figure wavered. I kept watching, kept hoping it would turn into Jesse for real.
“What’s wrong with you, Bennett? I said, class is dismissed. Get the hell out of here.”
All those black dots fell apart, and the figure faded into nothing. I fell to my knees. Mr. Hershel made a quick stride across the room. “Hey, hey. A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
My words were sobs. “There was a boy. The one in the drawing. He’s gone.”
Long arms came around me, hands patted my back. “Shhh.” A few seconds later, “I’m sorry I said those things, Bennett. Forgive me, will ya? I’m just a bitter old man. When I told you to start over on the drawing, you were supposed to say, ‘Screw you, Max. I’ll finish this one and you’ll either like the damn thing or kiss my ass good-bye.’”
I shook my head. “Well, I did tell you to kiss my ass.”
He smiled. “Yes, you did. And I deserved it. Come with me.” He grabbed my arm, and we headed for the classroom. The students were gone. He led me to Jesse’s drawing. “It’s damn good. I’ve been dying for you to finish it—if only you could get up the fucking nerve.”
“I’m trying, honest to God.”
“Do you think it was easy for Picasso to finish a painting of a lover who’d just left his bed the last time? It’s never easy, but the difference between you and any other idiot out there calling themselves an artist is that you will finish, and they won’t. I’ll push you until you do. You’ll hate me, but I’ll keep on pushing.”
“He’s gone,” I said. “And it’s all my fault.”
“Doubt it.”
“He deserves to be here, not me.”
Max reached into his shirt pocket to extract a packet of cigarettes. He lit one, then fell onto a stool. “Fate doesn’t agree. You’re here, he isn’t. That’s how the game goes.” He patted the stool next to his. “What’s his name?”
“Jesse.” I sat down, ignoring the smoke. “Jesse Limon.”
“Husband know?”
“Yes,” I said, then added quickly, “but it’s not like that. We were just friends.”
“Sure.” Our eyes met, and for the first time I saw something human in him, like he knew and understood. Like he wasn’t going to hurt or cut through me with his words. “You’re not looking well, Bennett. I hated yelling at you today, but someone has to get you out of this trap you’ve put yourself in. Don’t you see? I don’t care if people hate me, though it does hurt when I care about someone this much.
“If you place in this contest, I want you to promise to use the money and the credentials to further your career. Married or not. Just promise me you won’t settle for teaching, or worse, doing all your work at home while hubby gets his kicks.”
“Don’t preach to me about marriage, okay? Not right now.”
“Fine.” A hand patted my back in awkward rhythm. He lit up another cigarette. “Sorry, it’s a bad habit. I should stop, yadda, yadda.”
I sat down before the drawing, listening to the sound of him sucking the air in and out with slow, hypnotic puffs behind me. “I don’t mind. I like it when people have vices,” I said. “It makes me think they’re more human.”
“Me, too.”
“People should have flaws.”
“Agreed.”
“People should cuss.”
“Fucking right.”
I laughed. “Yeah, fucking right.”
I turned to glare at him and he gave a hearty laugh. He took one last drag and played with the cigarette for a quiet moment. It fell from his fingers, and he stomped and crushed it. “That was my last one. If you finish that drawing, and all the others, then I’ll quit smoking.”
“Really?”
He sounded instantly unsure or his promise and let out a loud groan. “Yes. Yes, honest. Dammit. I’ll be edgy as hell.”
I stared at Jesse’s empty face for the last time. “Then I’ll finish it tonight. Right here.”
“Good.” He sounded relieved. “I’ll just go sit at my desk and stare at my empty hands.”
An hour later, the drawing was complete, aside from a few details I wanted to add to the Fender guitar. Jesse stared out at me for the first time in over a year. I’d captured him perfectly. His expression, his stance, the way his hands gripped the guitar neck. Max said nothing, but peered over with wordless appreciation.
I told him all about Jesse and the crazy things he used to do, the crazy things he’d say. How he would be a rock star, how he thought his dad was John Lennon. I told Max that William and I had run from a cult and we were sensitives, but I was probably losing my ability. And William along with it.
He didn’t laugh or scoff at any of my words. He listened.
It was almost nine o’clock when we left the art department, his arm slung over my shoulder. Max flipped off the lights and opened the door. I sensed him before I saw him.
William stood in the hall.
His nostrils flared. “I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Hershel.” His beard had grown out a lot since our afternoon in the diner. It made him appear so much older, and slightly haggard.
I slipped out from under Max’s arm. “I was just leaving.”
He wouldn’t look at me, only at Max. And if looks could kill, his would be a semiautomatic. “Class has been over for at least an hour. I waited for you by the car in the freezing cold.”
“I’m sorry, Will. I really am.”
Max spoke in a friendly, casual tone meant to diffuse human TNT. “Listen, son, I’m only trying to get Emma ready for a co
ntest. She just worked her butt off. Now I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
William’s eyes could cut steel. “Do you always touch your students like that?”
“Hey,” Max said, throwing his hands up in humorous defense, “I’m a touchy-feely guy, what can I say? No big deal.”
William’s lips tightened. All his flushed pink turned white with anger. “Sure, no big deal. But if I ever see you touching her again, I’ll rip both your arms off your body. Got it? No big deal.”
Max felt his shirt pocket for the packet of cigarettes which were no longer there. He mumbled a curse, and then ran a hand through his long hair. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing, son. I was just being friendly.”
“Don’t call me son.” William’s fists tightened. He was going to hit Max, despite all attempts made to ease the situation. I grabbed the most dangerous arm. “Time to go.” I tossed a glance toward Max. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Think about what you’re going to work on next. Maybe one of those simple line sketches, okay, Bennett?”
“Okay.” I gave him a smile and a sorry-you-almost-died expression.
William was tense. We walked through the dim halls, scary with silence, and then down the stairwell, with its patterned metal steps echoing loudly as we ascended to ground level. He didn’t say a word through the courtyard or in the parking lot on the way to the car.
“I’m driving,” I said, fishing the keys out of my purse. I’d decided I should do it more. Jesse would want me to. He’d given the car to me, after all.
“Emma—”
“Just driving, not trying to change the world.”
He conceded, and walked around to the other side of the black Camaro. Once we were both inside, I hesitated before starting the engine. “Will . . .” Our eyes met in the darkness. Frost hung around my breath. “This isn’t working, is it?”